


Park Benches

by carolinecrane



Category: My Bodyguard (1980)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinecrane/pseuds/carolinecrane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ricky's favorite part of traveling is always coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Park Benches

Traveling was one of the things Clifford liked most about his job. It meant he got to go all sorts of places and meet new people, to help them learn to be better at their jobs. And he was good at it, which was why he was a regional manager at thirty-five instead of being content to manage a single hotel the way his dad had been.

But his favorite part of traveling, no matter where he went or who he met, was always coming home. He liked coming home to New York, to the hustle and bustle of the city, liked catching a cab into Manhattan and then hopping on the subway for the trip back to The Bronx. 

He liked letting himself into an empty apartment and setting his bag down on the bed, finding the bed unmade and knowing Ricky had climbed out of it that morning and stumbled into the shower without a backward glance. He liked finding the shirt Ricky had worn the day before tossed carelessly on the bathroom floor instead of in the hamper, and he didn’t even mind the hair in the sink from where Ricky had shaved that morning.

Once he’d put Ricky’s shirt and his own clothes in the hamper and tucked away his shaving kit, Clifford let himself out of the apartment again and walked the few blocks to the shop where Ricky was assistant manager. He’d been working there almost as long as Clifford had known him, part time at first after school and on the weekends, and then full time once they graduated.

Ricky didn’t like to talk about it, but Clifford was pretty sure the owner would put him in charge officially one of these days. Ricky pretty much ran the place already, and his boss didn’t have any family to leave the shop to. So they’d started saving once Clifford finished college and got a job, and even though they didn’t really talk about it, he figured they’d buy out Ricky’s boss one day, and then the shop would be all his.

When he walked into the shop Ricky was under a car, so Clifford leaned against a workbench and waited. He liked watching the way Ricky moved, how he finessed the parts of whatever vehicle he was working on even though his hands looked too big to be graceful.

But Clifford knew Ricky’s hands, and he knew exactly what Ricky could do with them. He grinned at the thought, watching as Ricky slid out from under the car and spotted him. 

There was a smear of grease across his right cheek and his hair was as messy as ever, and when he reached for a rag and wiped his hands Clifford could see the grease lodged under his fingernails.

“Hey,” Ricky said, dropping the rag on the hood of the car as he stood up. “How long you been back?”

“Not long,” Clifford answered. “You about ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah. Just give me a minute to wash up.”

He disappeared into the grimy bathroom at the back of the shop, and Clifford listened to the water running and smiled at the thought of Ricky trying in vain to scrub the grease out from under his fingernails. The truth was that Clifford liked the grease under Ricky's nails and in the grooves of his palms; he liked the callouses on Ricky’s hands that dragged along his skin, and he liked the scratch of stubble on Ricky’s chin at the end of the day.

Clifford kept his hands to himself when Ricky came out of the bathroom and hung up his coveralls, then stopped in the office long enough to tell his boss he was leaving. When Ricky’s boss looked up and spotted him Clifford waved, grinning at the way Ricky blushed even though his boss had figured out why Clifford kept coming around all the way back in high school.

They walked out of the shop shoulder to shoulder, and once they turned the corner, Ricky’s arm slid around his shoulder.

“You wanna stop somewhere for dinner?”

“There’s food back at the apartment,” Ricky answered, his palm warm against Clifford’s back. 

“You cooked for me?” Clifford said, grinning when Ricky rolled his eyes, because that meant Ricky really had cooked for him.

“We can go out if you want.”

“No,” Clifford answered, his arm sliding around Ricky’s waist. “Let’s just go home.”


End file.
